


Lifting of the Veil

by Vichan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-20
Updated: 2010-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vichan/pseuds/Vichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stolen moments are all they have. They're all they've ever had or ever will have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifting of the Veil

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Q: Do I own Supernatural? A: No.  
> Stuff: ~1200 words, angsty, apocafic... snapshot?  
> Notes: I don't know how many years ago it was, but somewhere along the way I found [](http://tracy-loo-who.livejournal.com/profile)[**tracy_loo_who**](http://tracy-loo-who.livejournal.com/) in the HP fandom. Found her again the SPN fandom. Today is her birthday, and I wrote something I don't completely hate. Coincidence? Maybe. (I think I wrote you something sad. Um... sorry? I don't even know WHAT this is. Here, have some cheesecake.)

Stolen moments are all they have. They're all they've ever had or ever will have.

The world is burning around them, sometimes literally. It truly is Hell on earth, though the two of them, the only two on the so-called right side that have actually seen Hell for what it really is, don't dare breathe a word of that. It's not necessary anyway; everyone in the tiny ragtag army knows the truth in their gut. It's not something they need to hear with words.

Children cry out for their mothers, mothers reach for their husbands, and husbands try to put on a brave face even though they know deep down that this really is the end. Sinners are repenting, priests work overtime in accepting confession, and the true believers are rejoicing, praying that this is the moment they are taken into paradise. Of the few who know what's really happening, no one bothers to explain. Not one. It doesn't matter, because everyone is right and everyone is dead, dead wrong.

When they're not planning a defense, or gathering the few hunters and reverends and veterans that are willing to fight, or patching wounds or avoiding mourning those they had just met and just lost, they always turn one way. When everything is calm even while the smoldering cinders on the horizon make the sky glow red, one hand reaches out to another.

It's never slow and tender. They never know if they'll have the time to worship the flesh the way they'd like, never know if they'll be interrupted, never know when the absolute, final battle will be upon them. Only one of them needs to sleep, but the one that doesn't is the strongest defense they have and always could be called away at any given moment. They reach out for each other in pure desperation, never slowing down and savoring the taste or feel of one another.

It's always quick and frantic as each one tries to take in as much of the other as they can, as fast as they can. Whenever there's a break in the action, there is a unyielding need to get skin to skin almost immediately. Hands start tearing off leather coats and ties and jeans as soon as they find themselves alone. Sometimes it starts happening even before they're alone, although the others know by now to clear away when they see the spark in their eyes and breath quickening.

The few who have met Dean Winchester before were surprised, to say the least, though even fewer have something to say about it. Ellen Harvelle had been silenced by a glare from Bobby Singer, while Rufus's snide comment had been cut short by Sam Winchester's fist.

Despite that, the two of them still hear whispers about it: a hunter who has been to Hell and back and an angel who is not quite fallen but not quite flying only seek solace in each other. In a way, the quiet chatter surrounding them only makes their gasping louder, their movements more frenzied as they try their hardest to drink each other in completely.

Neither of them can be sure when it really started. It could have been the first time they laid together, or the first time a pair of lips pressed themselves against another, or the first time one leaned into the comforting touch of the other. It could have even been the first time they met face to face, sizing each other up in the dim light of an abandoned barn. Despite never being able to lay a finger on the beginning, they were both certain than neither of them ever wanted it to end.

They wrap themselves around the other, and no matter how unhinged they make themselves they both remain in perfect symmetry. They push and pull at each other, mourning that this hadn't begun sooner, knowing that it will not endure what's to come.

Hell is on earth, turning the world into Lucifer's domain, and they know better than to hope that both will survive. They have both accepted their own mortality, acknowledged that its shorter than what it naturally should be. Dean has known for most of his life that he likely wouldn't live to see forty, while Castiel, who has been around for millennia, knew that the probability of facing the devil himself and living was beyond minuscule.

Sometimes, on the rare occasion that they have more time than usual, they sit back, leaning against a wall or a headboard or what seems like the last patch of soft grass in the whole world. They sit back and they whisper to each other. They speak of the life together that they won't ever live, of what they'll do when the end of the world has ended. They murmur in the ear of the other and mediate every detail of what their lives would be like.

There is a house, painted the color of the sky with an off-white trim. They wake up each morning wrapped in cotton sheets on a comfortable bed with the sun beating down on their faces through the skylight over their heads. They have a small, modest library that Castiel relaxes in and reads while Dean is mowing their lush lawn or out in the garage working on the Impala. They never take turns preparing dinner; they do it together, arm brushing against arm as one cleans vegetables and the other dices garlic. There are two guest bedrooms, one for Bobby and one for Sam, though others use them when they come to visit. Dean no longer hunts, but he's always there to hand out advice to the younger ones just starting out. Castiel is still an angel, accepted and loved by the Host and in perfect harmony with God.

Nothing ever changes in the future they'll never have, but it grows larger and more elaborate with every chance they have to pretend. Those are the moments they take the chance to truly savor, when they've sated everything carnal and they merely enjoy vocal communion, soaking in every word the other has to say.

The only times they speak of the horror surrounding them is when one or both of them have an uncomfortably close brush with death. Even then, they'll only slip and slide against one another with even more desperation than usual, whispering "not now, too soon." They both know that even though they've come to terms with their own annihilation they'll never be able to endure the other leaving this world forever. It's only when they nearly lose one half of themselves that they ever face reality.

The one thing they both crave but never allow themselves is mere comfortable silence. They both desire to sit and listen to the pattern of their breathing fall into sync, but neither of them ever try to initiate it. They have too many things to do together, far too many things to say, and they know they don't have all the time in the world.

When they're gathered with the others, when they're planning out the next battle that will likely wind up with half of them killed, their eyes find each other across the room. It's then that they realize that despite the evil and fire and death surrounding them, the moments they steal together are the happiest, most peaceful moments they've ever had.

And when they know no one's watching, they allow themselves to smile.


End file.
